Showcase
by Mho Mhuirnin
Summary: Culinarian's guild: Tantalizing scents, friendly competition, flambé gone wrong. A guild showcase prompts rivalry in two guildmates.


Batagreens sailed into the air, thickly sliced and coated in butter. Their appetizing smell quickly permeated the Culinarian's Guild kitchen as Jacodaut caught them skillfully in his cast-iron skilled, preparing his piece d'resistance for tonight's guild showcase at the Timbre Timbers tavern. He likely wasn't going to be winning any prizes this year, Hakim seemed to snatch all of those with his baked goods... Jacodaut knew he could have an easy victory by playing off the Tarutaru fondness for sweets, but why settle for an easy victory when you could fully express your art in something more masterful? Something such as his specialty, Batagreen sauté.

Jacodaut smiled to himself, humming busily as the greens sizzled. He was forgetting something, but what was it? He'd added plenty of butter, the sizzle alone attested to that. The spices were all there, it was hard_not_ to smell them. No, there was something else... His question answered itself as the kitchen doors opened and a short, doublet-clad Mithra walked in.

She glanced about the kitchen before spotting the tall Elvaan chef, and padded over. "Rrremember that provisions request I put in?" she asked, rocking on her heels gently.

Jacodaut affected a thoughtful air. "Do I remember... Well, that_was_ quite some time ago, you'll have to understand if I've forgotten. It was... My, a whole fifteen minutes now! It's a wonder I've any recollection at all," he chuckled. "Although ordering a week's supply of iron bread and salted cod _is_ a touch unusual, come to think of it. Planning another one of your trips so soon? You haven't been back a week!"

"Hrrrmph. Cancel it anyway, I won't need it anymorrre. Instead..." She looked thoughtful for a moment. "Any cinna-cookies left overrr from the festival?"

"From survival to decadence! What _are_ we to do with you, Muirnin?" laughed Jacodaut.

The Mithra snorted "They'rrre not for _me_, they're for a friend's children! You know cinnamon makes me sneeze, anyway. I'd have to orrrder a bundle of handkerchiefs to go with the cookies if they were for me."

"And how do I know you haven't?" chided Jacodaut. "We don't exactly keep close contact with the Weaver's Guild. No, no, there is something else afoot here." Seeing Muirnin's face go slack, he laughed triumphantly.

"Ah! So you seek to confound me with a mask! Well, you'll not foil me so easily," chuckled the Elvaan. "You see, I've been reading faces for many a year. Now, yours says something of expectation... Yes, expecting something wonderful perhaps, but... A tinge of sadness. Bittersweet? Ah! I have it." Jacodaut set his skillet aside and grinned.

"You're anxious because you wish to sample some of my fabulous cuisine over a romantic candle-light dinner, but, alas! Are afraid of rejection by yours truly, and so do not state your desires. Well, have no fear! I've set aside a place in my very busy schedule for just such an event."

"Wh-what!" stuttered Muirnin, taking a step backwards. "You—" She flushed, grumbling as Jacodaut laughed anew.

"You always were an easy one to fluster. Let my finish this sauté, I'll fetch the cookies for you in just a moment." He continued tossing the batagreens, frowning as he noticed the Mithra's intent stare. "While I appreciate the heat of your stare, I assure you the skillet's quite hot enough to handle the job..."

She shook her head. "No, that's not it. That smell. A bit differrrent from the spices you usually use for sautés. Special event?" She glanced around the kitchen, noticing the business for the first time. "Everrryone's up to something... We arrren't catering another dignitary visit at the Star Trrree?"

"Nothing of import," sniffed the lanky man. "Nothing like, oh for example, a guild showcase at the Timbre Timbers. No silliness like that. I'll fetch those cookies now, and you can go about your business..." Jacodaut spoke airily, turning from the stove to make for the back storage room.

"Guild showcase! Nobody told me! Hand me that sparrre skillet, I'll make my meunierrre...!" Muirnin reached for a second skillet, hanging from a peg above the stove. It was quickly lifted out of her grasp however, and replaced by a smiling Elvaan face.

"Oh, no. No. I think not my dear. You see, I've enough competition already, and it simply would NOT do to have another dish vying for supremacy. Besides, didn't you have a visit to make? Some friend's children?"

Muirnin growled, but the rest of the guild ignored her. They were well used to the mock-fights between the Elvaan chef and the far-shorter Mithra. "Plenty of time forrr that later. Afraid your grrreens won't make the cut? Think a few fish will show you up? Maybe—" Her eyes suddenly went wide with fear, her small form dropping to a crouch. "HAKIM, NO! You rrremember what happened last time you used a wind crrrystal on a bag of flour!"

Jacodaut's well-honed survival instincts kicked in and he ducked, dropping the skillet in his haste. You didn't spend time around novice craftsmen, especially not those that relied on crystals, without learning a few things. Unfortunately, how not to be tricked by a Mithra was not one of them. Muirnin deftly caught the skillet and stood, flashing a winning smile at the confused Hakim before turning to the stove's spare burner. "I've got to rrremember that one. It worked pretty well," she laughed. "Now, point me to the olive oil..."

Jacodaut sighed heavily and stood. "...Left cabinet, third shelf."

_A strange one, that Muirnin,_ though Jacoudaut._ Always wandering in and out, spending a few weeks cooking, sometimes a few months... Then she's off pulling another disappearing act, only to march back in who knows how much further down the road. She had potential, that was certain. Now if only she'd learn the discipline to settle down and work at something in anything more than fits and starts..._

The acrid smell of rising smoke caught his attention. The greens were burning! He'd left them unattended too long! Frantically yanking his skillet from the heat, he sighed at the now-charred lump fused to the bottom. "Blast! You've won the battle Mithra, but not the war!"

Peals of Mithran laughter drifted over the gently lapping wavelets of Windurst Water, joined moments later by others at the most recent in a long history of Culinarian's Guild debacles. Whatever happened, tonight would be one to remember.


End file.
